Marvel : Starting as Ghost Riser

[From lands afar, O being of mystery!]

[Adorer of coin, master of desires, craver of boundless riches, demon who commands the human heart!]

[By the moon, I swear my oath. By my life, I offer sacrifice. By my blood, I guide your way.]

[Bound by a pact of ages past.]

[I summon you to this mortal realm!]

In a crumbling wooden shack on the city's outskirts, a young man, barely eighteen, knelt before an ancient, cryptic parchment of sheepskin. He chanted the words inscribed upon it.

Before him lay a sacrificial sheep, encircled by a hexagram drawn in fresh blood. Candles burned at each point of the star, and moonlight streamed through the window, perfectly illuminating the parchment.

The boy finished the incantation. He took a dagger and pricked his finger, letting drops of blood fall onto the parchment.

The runes on the parchment stirred, tiny mouths opening to drink the boy's blood.

The hexagram began to glow. The sheep, trapped within, bleated nervously. Moments later, its cries turned to anguished howls.

Slowly, the sheep's body withered, as if something were siphoning away its flesh and blood. Finally, only a bare skeleton remained, every trace of flesh and blood vanished—a gruesome spectacle.

[Ah—who calls to me?]

A flash of light, and a distinguished, white-haired man in a suit appeared. He gazed at the boy with gentle eyes.

"Do you seek my aid, child?" the demon, now in the guise of a handsome gentleman, asked with a smile.

"Yes. My mother is ill and needs a great deal of money. I couldn't secure a loan, so I had to resort to… a demon." The boy swallowed, taking a hesitant step back.

"Hehe, child, you've come to the right place. I can provide the money, a fortune to heal your mother. However… there is a small, trivial price," the demon in the suit said amiably.

"You won't demand my soul, will you?" The boy retreated another step, his eyes flicking to the door, poised for flight.

The demon watched, unperturbed. Patience was a virtue in his trade.

A sly smile touched his lips. "No, no. That's merely church propaganda. In truth, demons are the strictest followers of contracts. We cannot take your soul unless you freely offer it. And your ability to summon a demon suggests you're familiar with our… reputation for integrity."

The boy visibly relaxed. He bit his lip, then met the demon's gaze with newfound determination. "What must I give in exchange for the money to save my mother?"

Seeing his prey ensnared, the demon's smile widened. "Only your lifespan. How much you offer is your decision."

He waved a hand, and an ancient parchment and a quill pen materialized before the boy. The surrounding light seemed to be drawn into them, creating an eerie effect, like gazing into a black hole.

"Ten thousand US dollars for each year of life. Offer as much as you wish." Observing the boy's appearance, the demon knew the deal was sealed.

The boy's soiled clothes, tattered shoes, and unwashed hair spoke volumes about his financial desperation.

"Then—can I sign for one year?" the boy asked cautiously, taking the quill.

"Of course, my child. Your lifespan stretches to a magnificent ninety-eight years. One year is utterly inconsequential," the demon assured him, still smiling.

"Do I truly have ninety-eight years?" the boy asked, wavering.

"Indeed, I guarantee it."

This assurance banished the boy's hesitation. He glanced at the demon, then picked up the parchment, studying it intently.

Though he couldn't read the demonic script, the contract's spiritual emanations allowed him to grasp its terms: ten thousand dollars for one year of life.

After rereading it several times, and finding no apparent traps, he steeled himself and wrote "sixty years," then signed his name:

[Jack Sparrow]

The signature triggered a burst of white light from the parchment, which split into two golden beams, merging with each of them.

Both felt an invisible, intangible contract bind their souls.

"Excuse me, when will I receive the money?" the boy asked eagerly.

"Hehe, have no fear. Demons are meticulous about contracts. You're a lottery player, aren't you? One of the tickets in your pocket holds the equivalent sum in US dollars."

"Wonderful! I must cash it immediately." The boy turned to leave.

"Hold. Have you forgotten something?" The shack's dim light flickered, though no wind stirred. The demon, now obscured by shadows, no longer wore his benevolent human mask. He looked menacing.

The demon's smile widened, revealing pointed fangs. Horns began to sprout from his head.

"The contract doesn't specify when I collect your life."

"And… you don't have that much life to live…"

The boy backed away, fear rising. "But, but…"

The demon relished the terror in human eyes. They all knew demons were malevolent, yet they couldn't resist striking bargains.

And the result? Most lost not only their souls but were also enslaved in body.

"Demons are the strictest adherents to contracts, and also the greatest violators of them. And, I'm famished…"

"Become my sustenance, Jack Sparrow…"

The demon's transformation accelerated. His skin turned a fiery red, his eyes became abysses of black, the whites vanished. Fangs jutted from his mouth, and his hands twisted into monstrous claws.

The demon lunged, seizing the boy. He watched Jack's panicked struggles with delight. He opened his cavernous maw, his mouth splitting back to his ears, saliva dripping. Rows of jagged teeth, hungry for more than just the boy's soul, were revealed.

Crunch—

A searing pain shot through the demon's mouth. Several teeth shattered. A burning sensation, like raging fire, spread from his hand.

The demon recoiled, flinging the boy away. He stared, dumbstruck.

The boy had changed. His skin was now crimson, black smoke and flames pouring from cracks in his body. His head had become a burning skull.

"Hehehehehe..." The skull chuckled, a low, guttural sound.

It looked up at the demon. Though expressionless, the demon felt the chilling intent of that gaze, like a lion spotting its prey.

"Hahahahaha..." The laughter escalated from a low growl to a maniacal shriek.

"I adore demons who disregard contracts. And my name is not Jack Sparrow."

A flicker of recognition, of fear, crossed the demon's face. He stumbled back, staring in horror.

Within the skull's eye sockets, two flames ignited, blazing ever brighter in the abyssal darkness.

"And… I too, am hungry…"

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"?(?^?^*), Good luck wishes you good luck, good luck brings devils and Manny." [See notes about this opening line]

New York, Brooklyn, 44th Street. A man pulled up to a bar on a dirt bike, humming a cheerful tune as he parked. Clearly, he was in high spirits.

This was Roger's true appearance, a man in his early twenties. In his previous life, he'd been a shut-in otaku who, while playing a VR Marvel game, had knocked over his "gamer fuel" (soda) and electrocuted himself.

When he transmigrated to this world, he discovered a cheat – a player system.

He gradually explored the system's various functions. It didn't communicate with him directly, but it allowed him to create character skins, learn skills, and occasionally receive rewards for completing quests.

By chance, he met a demon hunter, Constantine – known as "Scumbag Con" – and witnessed his skillful deception of demons, essentially fleecing them.

This gave Roger an idea: could his player system's character skins fool demons?

These character skins were like creating a game account. He could change not only race but also gender, hair, height, and appearance.

After his first successful experiment with a lesser demon, Roger realized that the character skins were the most powerful aspect of his cheat. From then on, he was unstoppable.

He'd create a character, make deals with loan-sharking demons, obtain their goods or money, and then, when they came to collect their principal and interest, he'd simply delete the character skin, evading the contract's penalties.

With the character template deleted, the demonic incantations couldn't find him, and the contracts were void. It was like a game – enemies could only see your online handle, not your real name.

Finally, in an incredibly rare opportunity, he conned the Lord of Hell, Mephisto, and obtained his Wrath of God – the Ghost Rider.

Not only did he refuse to work for Mephisto, but he also gave his "boss" a beating. Because Mephisto only had an avatar in the human realm.

From then on, Roger no longer had to hide. He openly fleeced hell's demons, not only taking their "wool" but also slaughtering the "sheep" for their "meat."

Eventually, all of Hell knew that there was a man named "Scumbag Roger" who was even more terrifying than Scumbag Con. He not only liked to borrow, but he also enjoyed beating up the demons who lent to him...

The demon he'd fleeced last night was probably a newbie, unaware of the dangers of the mortal world. He'd been so careless in lending, and Roger had not only taken his "wool" but had also eaten his "meat."

Demons from Hell seemed to have to follow certain rules in the human realm. Beings like Mephisto could only send an avatar, while weaker demons could come in their true forms.

Roger didn't know if this was because of the presence of Kamar-Taj, preventing powerful demons and devils from appearing in their true forms.

After arriving in this world, Roger found it almost identical to the Marvel universe. There was Hydra, Captain America, and Stark Industries. Initially, he'd considered learning magic at Kamar-Taj.

But after several unsuccessful attempts to find the New York Sanctum – whether due to a lack of fate or the Ancient One's unwillingness to accept him – Roger gave up.

Entering the bar, Roger wasted no time. He went straight to the counter and called out.

"Old Ray, a Three-colour Cup milk tea for me."

"Yo, long time no see, Roger! Have you been out making another fortune?" The bartender was a bald, bearded man, also the owner of [Ray's Bar]. His name was Ray, nicknamed "Old Ray."

He also had another identity: an information broker and a middleman. What kind of middleman? One who sold various demon-hunting supplies, of course.

The bar was a front. In reality, it was a hub where demon hunters exchanged information and purchased supplies.

If you needed holy water or enchanted bullets, you'd give the bar owner a deposit, and he'd get them for you within a few days, for a small commission.

Sometimes, Roger would acquire unusual items that he couldn't use, and he'd sell them here.

"Hehe, I wouldn't call it a fortune, but I made a little profit."

Roger pulled out two thick stacks of US dollars and, turning to the patrons in the bar, announced generously, "Drinks are on me tonight! Drink all you want, until you puke!"

The diverse group of demon hunters and mercenaries in the bar raised their glasses in acknowledgment.

"Awoo! Way to go, Roger!"

"Roger, you're our hero!"

"Old Ray, a Three-Color Cup milk tea for me! I've always wanted to try one."

"Give me a crate of vodka! I'm sleeping here tonight!" a burly man from Russia bellowed.

Demon hunters weren't always safe. You never knew what level of demon or devil you'd face. You might die on your next hunt.

So, spending their earnings on booze or women to relieve stress was common.

They earned a lot, but they spent a lot too, wasting large quantities of special materials on each hunt.

Those who tried to save money often died on a mission. So, it wasn't surprising that some demon hunters were broke.

"Roger, here you go. Your drink." Old Ray handed him a mixed drink.

This cocktail was made with three different types of liquor, resembling milk tea in appearance. Hence, its name: Three-Color Cup Milk Tea.

Roger took the cocktail and savored a sip. A cool sensation flowed down his throat to his stomach, followed by a fiery warmth, culminating in a pleasant feeling that rushed to his brain, relieving the day's fatigue.

"Ah~ Nice, satisfying! Old Ray, your mixing skills are getting better and better," Roger said, setting down the glass. "Any good tasks in the underworld lately?"

The bar owner chuckled, wiping a glass. "What kind of task are you looking for? Goods or cash?"

Roger waved his hand. "Tell me about both."

"Cash" was straightforward – the client paid in money.

"Goods" meant the client offered items as payment. These tasks, if commissioned by ordinary people, often presented opportunities for a lucky find.

The items offered by ordinary people were often heirlooms – parchments with magical runes, books, or specimens of magical creatures.

Their value depended on the needs of the task-taker. Generally, there were two categories: appraised items and unappraised items.

The lucky finds were in the latter category. Unappraised items held infinite possibilities. Sometimes, you'd risk your life to obtain one, only to discover it was worthless.

Other times, you'd find an artifact. It all came down to the demon hunter's judgment whether to accept the task.

"Hmm—seems like there's a pair of foolish brothers going around, exorcising demons for free, disrupting the whole market."